Bernard prepared for Gordon's arrival in Paris, which, according to his letter, would take place in a few days.
He was not intending to stop in England; Blanche desired to proceed immediately to the French capital, to confer with her man-milliner, after which it was probable that they would go to Italy or to the East for the winter.
"I have given her a choice of Rome or the Nile," said Gordon, "but she tells me she does n't care a fig where we go."
I say that Bernard prepared to receive his friends, and I mean that he prepared morally--or even intellectually.
Materially speaking, he could simply hold himself in readiness to engage an apartment at a hotel and to go to meet them at the station. He expected to hear from Gordon as soon as this interesting trio should reach England, but the first notification he received came from a Parisian hotel.
It came to him in the shape of a very short note, in the morning, shortly before lunch, and was to the effect that his friends had alighted in the Rue de la Paix the night before.
"We were tired, and I have slept late," said Gordon; "otherwise you should have heard from me earlier. Come to lunch, if possible.
I want extremely to see you."
Bernard, of course, made a point of going to lunch. In as short a time as possible he found himself in Gordon's sitting-room at the Hotel Middlesex.
The table was laid for the midday repast, and a gentleman stood with his back to the door, looking out of the window. As Bernard came in, this gentleman turned and exhibited the ambrosial beard, the symmetrical shape, the monocular appendage, of Captain Lovelock.
The Captain screwed his glass into his eye, and greeted Bernard in his usual fashion--that is, as if he had parted with him overnight.
"Oh, good morning! Beastly morning, is n't it?
I suppose you are come to luncheon--I have come to luncheon.
It ought to be on table, you know--it 's nearly two o'clock.
But I dare say you have noticed foreigners are never punctual--it 's only English servants that are punctual. And they don't understand luncheon, you know--they can't make out our eating at this sort of hour. You know they always dine so beastly early.
Do you remember the sort of time they used to dine at Baden?--half-past five, half-past six; some unearthly hour of that kind. That 's the sort of time you dine in America.
I found they 'd invite a man at half-past six. That 's what I call being in a hurry for your food. You know they always accuse the Americans of making a rush for their victuals.
I am bound to say that in New York, and that sort of place, the victuals were very good when you got them.
I hope you don't mind my saying anything about America?
You know the Americans are so deucedly thin-skinned--they always bristle up if you say anything against their institutions.
The English don't care a rap what you say--they 've got a different sort of temper, you know. With the Americans I'm deuced careful--I never breathe a word about anything.
While I was over there I went in for being complimentary.
I laid it on thick, and I found they would take all I could give them. I did n't see much of their institutions, after all;
I went in for seeing the people. Some of the people were charming--upon my soul, I was surprised at some of the people. I dare say you know some of the people I saw; they were as nice people as you would see anywhere.
There were always a lot of people about Mrs. Wright, you know; they told me they were all the best people. You know she is always late for everything. She always comes in after every one is there--looking so devilish pretty, pulling on her gloves.
She wears the longest gloves I ever saw in my life. Upon my word, if they don't come, I think I will ring the bell and ask the waiter what 's the matter. Would n't you ring the bell?
It 's a great mistake, their trying to carry out their ideas of lunching. That 's Wright's character, you know; he 's always trying to carry out some idea. When I am abroad, I go in for the foreign breakfast myself. You may depend upon it they had better give up trying to do this sort of thing at this hour."
Captain Lovelock was more disposed to conversation than Bernard had known him before. His discourse of old had been languid and fragmentary, and our hero had never heard him pursue a train of ideas through so many involutions. To Bernard's observant eye, indeed, the Captain was an altered man.
His manner betrayed a certain restless desire to be agreeable, to anticipate judgment--a disposition to smile, and be civil, and entertain his auditor, a tendency to move about and look out of the window and at the clock. He struck Bernard as a trifle nervous--as less solidly planted on his feet than when he lounged along the Baden gravel-walks by the side of his usual companion--a lady for whom, apparently, his admiration was still considerable.
Bernard was curious to see whether he would ring the bell to inquire into the delay attending the service of lunch; but before this sentiment, rather idle under the circumstances, was gratified, Blanche passed into the room from a neighboring apartment. To Bernard's perception Blanche, at least, was always Blanche; she was a person in whom it would not have occurred to him to expect any puzzling variation, and the tone of her little, soft, thin voice instantly rang in his ear like an echo of yesterday's talk. He had already remarked to himself that after however long an interval one might see Blanche, she re-appeared with an air of familiarity.
This was in some sense, indeed, a proof of the agreeable impression she made, and she looked exceedingly pretty as she now suddenly stopped on seeing our two gentlemen, and gave a little cry of surprise.
"Ah! I did n't know you were here. They never told me.
Have you been waiting a long time? How d' ye do? You must think we are polite." She held out her hand to Bernard, smiling very graciously. At Captain Lovelock she barely glanced.
"I hope you are very well," she went on to Longueville;
"but I need n't ask that. You 're as blooming as a rose.